Intrinsic Fear
by FreyrFnk
Summary: Insomnia and mental illness are a downward spiral. (( Warnings inside ))


**Pairings:**Implied Erwin / Levi

**Warnings: **Death, mental illness, graphic imagery, night terrors, insomnia, angst angst angst

**Notes: **Written to Ophelia by Nolwenn Leroy

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**Intrinsic Fear**

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Everything here was white, white, white – or white-washed and pale beyond hint of color. The linens, the clothes, the walls, the yellowing floor of marbled tile to look like something other than the cheap shit it was – the too-thin curtains that let sun burn into the room at all hours of the day and on more than one occasion, was almost blinding. The bathroom with its bleached smell and blue, chemical-water and mirrors beginning to peel and crust at the edges, held onto dirty-grouted tile walls by cheap plastic clasps. The nurses wore white, a sharp contrast to their made-up faces and ugly hair, the doctors wore white coats, white shits – and a black or khaki or grey trouser.

He didn't really know if he'd remember what color was anymore, were it not for the brief glimpses of the outside world through the window.

Yellow cars, blinding, red – blue – green… the lush emerald of lawns he never got the chance to walk on, and likely never would. The pale blue of the sky with white tufts of clouds drifting by so lazily.

So motherfucking _peacefully _it made him want to vomit the days breakfast, but he really didn't need any additional help with that.

He knew another shade of blue though; cold as the rooms freezing temperatures at night – but warming whenever he smiled… and _safe _so much more safe than anything in this fucking place that was more a prison than a place to heal. He knew the golden blond of healthy hair with a shine that spoke of expensive shampoo that smelt of herbs and citrus. He knew the smell of Chanel cologne because it was what _he _wore and it'd been a security blanket, next to the calmly beating heart for more years than he could still count.

Time hardly mattered anyway, when days flashed by and alternately drug in slow motion as though he were hyped on some sort of narcotic.

There were the times of nothingness too, and perhaps those were the best, if only that nothingness could house his doctor too – it would be perfect. He didn't have to worry about wobbling on legs too thin and weak to really support him, or the sharp pain in his side whenever he went too far. Wouldn't have to worry about the shadows that crawled down the walls to wrap clawed, black hands hatefully around his throat at night while they leered down and laughed, laughed, laughed until his blood-curdling screams brought nurses and doctors running to ensure he didn't _hurt himself. _

They would never believe him that the monsters were real. That the bruises on his neck, the cuts on his arms and the bleach he swallowed once – were not his own doing but those _things _that giggled under his bed when the sun was out, and watched him from the cracks of doors when he passed by.

They sent him to psychiatrists, psychologists, doctors and surgeons and pediatricians and physical therapists. Ran CAT scans, other weird tests that landed him with hideous baby-blue caps on his head with wires attached and eyes fixated on him while he lay in a bed in a viewing room all night trying to sleep, trying not to fidget under that studious stare. They gave him endless combinations of medications that never worked, tried a diet change that only increased the nausea and vomiting, tried exercise that he blacked out from. They brought in a meditation instructor, tried aromatherapy – and massages but he didn't like people touching him and he sat for hours scrubbing at his skin trying to remove the feeling of their nasty, nasty hands because the monsters didn't like it when people were near him.

But they were afraid of Doctor Smith and he wished the man could just be with him all the time – but he couldn't _tell _them that because it wasn't possible and he was afraid Doctor Smith wouldn't come see him at all anymore.

He asked once, why he could never remember other people visiting – and they would only tell him he didn't have any family that they knew of. They wouldn't tell him why, because someone had to know. They asked him what he remembered and he could never answer because before the white, white, white prison there was nothing but darkness and a sharp pain in his temple and behind his eye, and his breath would constrict and his heart would race and he would scream for Erwin – because Doctor Smith told him a long time ago (was it years or months?) to stop calling him by his surname.

But things were worse sometimes. Like the ghosts that followed other people down the halls, they didn't believe him about those either. About their demented grins and hollow, black socket eyes and spindly fingers that could've curled around his neck four and five times, bulbous bodies that split into two spindles for legs and sometimes they shat (but he wasn't supposed to say such words, Erwin said) smaller ghosts from there, in a pouring of blood and click-clacking speech that was as close as they ever came to screams.

At least they left him alone.

He asked them to take the mirrors down because sometimes when he looked in, there were people behind him. Scary people with pale faces and ripped holes for mouths that sniffed and huffed and sucked at his neck and cheek and ran exploratory, violating fingers across his stomach and hips and thighs. They scared him the most, during the day, they had no eyes and bugs and dirt and blood dribbled from their matted hair even as they licked a foul smelling saliva across his skin.

He scrubbed doubly hard when he saw them and Erwin would always come in and force him to stop and rub some weird cream into his skin and massage his back and let him sit in his lap and hide his face in his pristine shirt.

He felt ugly next to Erwin, he was like an angel – and sometimes he was afraid to touch him because he didn't want to soil the beautiful white wings he saw on his back, framed in a green mantle. He told him about that once too – he painted it in the therapy class they plopped him in a wheelchair and shuttled him to. He was quite good at art, well… it made sense to him.

Some stupid girl once said she couldn't make out what he was doing and that it looked like splatters of paint all over paper without any proper shape.

She tried to paint over his picture – to show him what he did wrong… but he'd hit her and screamed and threatened the stupid bitch because she wasn't _allowed _to touch his painting. It was for Erwin, but by the time the orderlies pulled him off of her and drug her away he wanted to tear the paper in half and burn it and spit on it and stomp it out of existence because apparently he was too fucked up to even paint Erwin properly.

He'd spent so much time memorizing every little detail… every plane and angle of his face, the exact feel of his hands, the sound of his steps down the hallway, the cadence of his heartbeat… but maybe something like him wasn't meant to paint someone so pure.

He'd cried for the first time in years… or was it days(?) then. He hadn't left his room for a long, long time. Sometimes it was hard to tell how long because the darkness would come up so suddenly and go away… but it felt like a lifetime passed in between… and he never wanted to stay in the darkness for long.

He could never see anything – but he could hear things. Little feet on floors, and the murmur of distant voices and jeering. There was a rattle of chains and the wet, rasp of blood-filled lungs pulling their last gulps of air. Stuff squished between his toes and oozed across his skin and sometimes he would sink and thrash and fight but he couldn't get free until the darkness was suddenly gone and he was staring at stark white again and shivering and tangled in his blanket.

Erwin never gave up on him, even though other doctors shunted him aside when they discovered the potential exultation for solving the case wasn't worth the _trouble _that was the patient. But never, never Erwin. He felt bad, that he couldn't get better no matter how hard he tried – even though a part of him was afraid if he did he wouldn't ever see Erwin again – but he didn't want to be a burden on the man either.

He told Erwin this and the man frowned at him, told him not to think such ridiculous things and bought ice cream for them to eat on the balcony in the wind that smelt so amazing and fresh and different than the sterility of his room.

Things were looking up. Erwin brought him a cake with a '23' candle in the center. It was small enough for two people and his mouth watered at the size of it. He asked why there was a cake and a gift and Erwin said it was his birthday. Had he really forgotten that? He felt ashamed, but it was easily swept aside as they ate the delicious food. It was strange, to think he was so old… he didn't _feel _that old. Erwin watched him open the gift with careful fingers and immediately pull on the dark sweatshirt that smelt suspiciously like Chanel cologne and huddle down in it – almost refusing to remove it to have his hair cut. It had been growing quite a bit, and Erwin never complained when he asked him to cut it again so that it looked like his.

He sometimes wondered if Erwin realized how much his world revolved around him and the visits he paid, more frequently now, and he wasn't complaining – not in the least.

They went out. He had to put on _real _clothes and they were terribly uncomfortable and heavy but he bore with it and didn't even freak out in the car. They went to a restaurant, but he didn't feel comfortable. People were staring at him in bad ways – especially the girl who was supposed to take them to their seat. He didn't understand why until he looked into the reflective wall they passed and froze.

His eyes were hollow, marred by the deep, dark bruising purple beneath and seeming too large for the deathly pale skin and hollow cheek bones. Too many bones sharpening the lines of his face that looked too young and too old to be twenty three. The stunted height that allowed him to curl up so comfortably in Erwin's lap now seemed so bad when shoulders that were too sharp and too thin drooped beneath the weight of the pull-over he wore. His hands were the worst – long fingered and skeletal and he didn't want to be here anymore because he looked like those things that he saw in the mirror and with shame dropping lead in his stomach for causing Erwin problems he begged to leave.

They did, but they stopped by an empty park and sat in the sun for a bit – and he was ecstatic to curl his toes in the grass he couldn't recall ever actually touching. It didn't even matter that he was disgustingly dirty when Erwin laughed at the awed expression on his face – because right now, he could smile back and he almost felt _okay._

Except he should have known things were never okay and leaving was a bad, bad idea – because _they _were angry and _they _were worse than ever.

They shoved him from the bed and chased him with snapping jaws that dripped blood – and how he hated blood, recoiled and blanked in panic at the sight of it. Their claws scrabbled on the floor, tore his bed, ripped his pillow – chased him to the door that was locked when _it wasn't supposed to be locked ever_. And he pounded on the heavy metal with tears streaming hot and heavy down his cheeks and hands bruising, throat burning with the ear splitting shrieks as he called for someone to come help and make them go away.

They grabbed for him, pulled him, bruised his arms and legs and sliced through the fabric of his clothing as they drug him nearer those gaping mouths that took up the entirety of what should've been a face. They'd never been so angry and they bit into him and scratched him and he screamed more and more and finally the door burst open and Erwin stood there – eyes wide, and mouth parting in disbelief and _worry _because blood was dripping from his mouth as he choked and spat out the chunk of flesh that _should've _been on his arm but was now a gaping, bleeding wound that left him light-headed.

Nurses rushed in as he flung himself at Erwin, sobbing and asking _why, why, why _those things wouldn't leave him alone and even the cologne and sound of Erwin's heart couldn't calm him down when the iron taste of blood was so strong on his tongue and souring in his stomach. Pain prickled his arm and he stared wide-eyed and fearful at one of the pale-faced nurses as she pulled the needle from his arm and he felt terrible, horrible, _empty _darkness creeping in. He didn't want to be in the dark, it was lonely and Erwin wasn't there and those _things _could get him… but he was gone and the babbled, incoherent words died on his tongue.

He opened his eyes to stonework ceiling and a bed much different than his own. He blinked, confused because his body felt… strange. He sat up and looked down at the muscles curving across his chest and down his stomach in wonder, at the hands that were calloused and small – but not skeletal and weak. HE stood with ease, walked with ease – looked out of the window to a vibrant blue sky and men in soldier's uniforms working through drills.

His breath caught when he saw the green mantle draped across a chair, bearing a crest of wings on the back.

Erwin was there – Erwin who looked at and spoke to him so much differently than _his _Erwin did. Whom he could look in the eye and smirk at and walk beside confidently. People scurried around them, saluted them – showed respect and difference and near _reverence _when they addressed him as Corporal.

He was strong here – the strongest. He had no fear, no pain – he slept and ate and talked with other people like he was okay and healthy and eventually the sickness and fear was a fleeting dream only visiting him in flashes of light and masked faces that were forgotten in the light of morning.

He fought giant monsters with gaping mouths so similar to the beasts that haunted him before. But he didn't fear them. HE reveled in their death as they disintegrated into steam and nothingness. Avenged those who fell by their greedy jaws and stood atop humanity – a hero – respected and powerful and healthy and _alive _in a way he'd never felt before. And Erwin, Erwin was here – next to him – and they were _equals _and lovers with such fleeting touches that sometimes turned harsh and nearly violent but were never lacking in the simple, simple message conveyed without words but with looks and action and silent understanding.

"_I love you."_

And he watched, in one of those fleeting dreams as blue eyes widened and face slackened in shock as he felt the dampness of tears on his cheeks and gripped the sleeve of that white doctor's coat with a desperation and a strength he didn't know he possessed.

And he woke again and he fought and fought and fought but it seemed to never end… until it did. Until they were safe and happy and free and _victorious _and he lay in the sun, basking in warm evening rays of glory and safety next to Erwin, who curled fingers in his hair and planted feather-light kisses on his knuckles that made him uncomfortable and excited all at once.

But he woke again – to cold and the smell of sterility and the sight of men in masks and the beep of machines and _Erwin wasn't there_ and he screamed and thrashed and fought –and hardly understood as they shouted something about sedatives and a psychotic break and the pain prickled his arm again but this time he didn't wake to that glorious, glorious dream they would've called a delusion of his mind – that was _sick _ and _weak… _but he didn't care because the pain was seeping away and the beeps were growing fainter and fainter until they rang with a flat, stale ring of finality while doctors and nurses stood shocked and still, staring at the skeletal body on the bed.

But he opened his eyes again – not to a dream (or a delusion or another reality) – but to blue, blue skies and blue, blue eyes that smiled in warmth and sadness and seemed so old yet so young. Without white walls, without white clothes – held in strong, warm arms and cradled by pristine white wings he had no fear of reaching out to touch as Erwin bent forward, touching their brows but never breaking eye contact as he whispered, a voice deep and harmonious and balm to a wounded soul.

"You don't have to fight anymore… you don't have to be sick, Levi… it's okay now."

Everything was okay, would always be okay so long as he was wrapped in those terribly warm wings and could see those terribly blue eyes. And he didn't cry this time, didn't fear because he _knew _it really was okay and he would never wake to nightmares and monsters and doctors with their trigger happy needles and condescending voices and prodding again.

And he smiled, for the first time in so long that it hurt his face to do so – but even that was fleeting in this amazingly bright place where everything was peaceful and _okay _and free of pain.

And when Erwin told him he looked and found a smaller, but mirroring set of wings upon his own shoulders – graceful and beautiful and clean and healthy unlike the sick, sick body left behind.


End file.
